


your days in one

by aspiringpencilcase



Series: we all had a design [1]
Category: Claymore
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 18:03:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6294373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspiringpencilcase/pseuds/aspiringpencilcase
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>wherein claymores have another chance at the whole "life" thing, and they remember the mess their previous one was. except wait, irene doesn't remember.<br/>at least until she meets teresa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your days in one

Friday is the busiest day in Irene’s schedule, and this is alright and well except for the fact that she is a) hungry b) to return a textbook on the theory of fields to the library. Technically, she can do it tomorrow but delaying it won’t spare her of doing it anyway, so she sighs and takes her place in the queue. Apparently, freshmen are handing their books in today and this always ends up in a fuss. Well, it’s not like she can help it.

When Irene looks down in an attempt to pass time by counting wooden tiles of the floor, there’s something shining on the ground, she reaches to pick it up.

Upon closer inspection, it turns out to be an earring, suspiciously similar to the one in the ear of the girl in front of her.

She debates tapping her shoulder, but settles for polite coughing.

“Sorry, is this yours?”

The girl in question turns around, flashing her a relaxed smile. Something about her is familiar, terribly so, but Irene can’t figure out where she has seen this face. It's oddly unsettling.

Irene frowns, only slightly, but her confusion only grows stronger when she hears the girl's voice - she's definitely heard it before.

“Oh, thank you, it’s mine indeed.” She keeps smiling that faint smile of hers.

It's kind of beautiful, _she_ is kind of beautiful and Irene finds herself a bit smitten.

It's weird. Irene has never been the one to be easily warmed up to people before, especially to strangers.

The girl turns away; it’s her turn already. She disappears behind the closed doors of the library, leaving Irene wondering why does the person she's seen for the first and probably the last time in her life bother her so much.

 

 

 

Next Monday, Irene marches into her first extra history class only to find all the cozy spots near the window taken. She frowns but resigns herself to sitting somewhere in the middle of the auditorium when a familiar voice reaches her ears.

She doesn’t even think before turning around to find its owner; it’s like her body is the needle of the compass and she’s never even been the one for poetic metaphors.

Well, "the last time" was definitely an exaggeration - the girl from the yesterday’s queue is talking with someone on the phone and judging by her slightly bored expression (the smile still remains) it isn’t of great interest for her. She catches Irene looking and nods as a sign of acknowledgement - Irene finds herself returning the gesture, smile on her face mirroring the girl’s.

She takes the seat in front of the girl whose name turns out to be Teresa; she learns it when their TA records their attendance. Irene can’t think of a name which would’ve suited her more.

She dreams of blood and blood and blood that night; silver bitterness of steel followed by the sharp edges of crushed hopes. Her blanket is clinging to her sweaty body when she wakes up at three am and reaches for the person who isn’t there in blind fear.

The cafeteria is just as noisy and headache-inducing as usual and the fact that Irene barely managed to sleep due to nightmares doesn’t help her case at all. She bites her piece of bread and signs as she chews - she still has two more classes to attend, one of which is lab work and-

“Sorry, is this seat taken?”

Irene glances up from her tray - sure, it’s Teresa. She looks gorgeous - her dark eyes and dark skin and dark hair and light, distant smile.

Irene manages to shake her head while remaining as calm as possible. Teresa’s smile widens.

“Thanks. Irene, weren’t you? Engineering department. We take the same history class.”

The confidence with which Teresa speaks is impressive even disregarding the fact that she remembers Irene so well. Her voice is even and smooth, a tad higher than Irene’s own. Irene nods at the last sentence (as if she needed the reminder).

“And you’re Teresa. How did you learn my major? I don’t remember writing it in the form.” It sounds harsher than Irene hoped it would come out but Teresa doesn’t seem fazed by it - her smile doesn’t even waver. She reaches for her bag and fishes out a sheet of paper which turns out to be Irene’s timetable, with her department and group written in bold black letters. Fuck.

“You left this in the auditorium where we have history.”

Their hands brush when Irene takes the timetable.

“Mine is politics. Pleased to meet you, Irene.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's something all first numbers have in common - they remember. (flashes of silver. yoma stink. taste of blood in their mouths, their lovers, their families - everything). Though those aren't usual memories; more like knowledge which is always in the edge of their minds. The lower your number once was, the more unclear and chaotic the pieces of it are.

Clare remembers nothing. It's better that way, Teresa thinks. She went through too much death and fear and loss for it to haunt her even in the next life.

They're reborn as sisters; that makes a lot of sense, Teresa muses, watching Clare brush her teeth in the morning, features soft and untouched by grief. Being an older sister comes easy to Teresa, unexpectedly enough: Clare adores her, but not in the desperate, harsh way she used to, it’s nice and simple. Teresa returns the feeling.

Getting to experience life in its casual, “not getting to fight any giant people-eating monsters who turn out to be biological weapons," flow is curious.

Teresa feels older than she is by default, the burden of the now non-existent sword callouses never quite abandoning her, though it doesn't interfere with her life much. She’s been labeled ‘mature’ from childhood, while her memories returned to her, slowly, piece by piece, in the age of fifteen, so her personality didn’t experience any dramatic changes. She goes to school, then to college, deciding to pick politics as her major; all terribly normal.

Then she meets Irene.

Well, maybe ‘meets’ isn’t quite accurate, since they’re sort of well-acquainted already. Teresa remembers the taste of her lips all too well, her smell, the pointy tips of her ears, her blushes, her pretty much everything. The solemn look on her face, when she came to kill her, the terrible mess afterwards. But there’s no organization and no black cards now. They can make it work, Teresa is sure of it, so she approaches Irene in the hallway one cloudy Monday.

Only to have Irene look straight through her.

Teresa doesn’t consider herself forgettable, not really. Besides, the few of the warriors she’s met by this point have recognized her. Some of them weren’t too happy to see her, but she’s met Deneve, who remembers Clare and, therefore, was able to deduce who Teresa was, and they had a nice little chat. She told Teresa that Helen had been reborn as her childhood friend, though she remembers much less. Teresa saw the sadness flickering in her eyes when she said that, deep and carefully tucked in, but decided not to meddle. Deneve is a smart girl, she’ll figure things out. Besides, Teresa just doesn’t do the meddling thing.

Except Irene, presumably, has no memory of her existence; she doesn’t even frown at the sight of her face. Teresa had been stripped of all colour already when they first met, but this problem never arose with other warriors.

Irene turns away to look at the clock on the wall; Teresa leaves the room. Her throat feels tight; the possibility of Irene being as clueless as Clare about their past has never occurred to her. Teresa has always known they will meet someday - for some reason, many claymores came to this exact area, some moved, some lived here from the start. It’s like the fate binds them all together here, though Teresa doesn’t exactly believe in fate.

She comes home actually feeling distressed, even though she left the house in a relatively good mood this morning; Clare watches her with these sharp eyes or hers, and Teresa lies through her teeth, smiling easy and distracted. She’s sure Clare doesn’t buy it, but she doesn’t press her for answers. She’s just there; it’s already a lot. Sometimes she catches herself on thinking that this is all a dream, bound to end soon, leaving Clare’s happy face crumbling like dust and falling through through her fingertips, that she will wake up caged by the thread keeping her yoma insides from slipping out, just like she used to be a life ago. It makes her heart rush, fast, unhappy, and Teresa has to convince herself that everything is as normal as it can possibly be by looking through the photos on her phone. There’s Clare holding up a small puppy, Helen ruffling Clare’s hair, her selfies, with Clare or without her, a picture of Deneve and Undine sitting next to each other in the library.

Past Teresa has never thought of herself as sentimental, but here she’s warmer, more human, and she can afford this. The glow of her phone and smiles of her sister and her now-friends calm her down; anchor her to the reality in which they got the happiness they all have clawed out for themselves through blood and tears. Somehow, Irene’s face without a trace of remembering her adds to the pleasant weight of the anchor.

“It can’t be all perfect," Teresa thinks, and though the ghost of Irene’s lips burns hot on her own, she sleeps easy this night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Irene seeks out Teresa’s face in the library. They have a break at the same time today and they sort of agreed to meet here to study together, as they seem to have an entirely different approach to taking notes, so they can exchange them and get something they’ve missed. “It’s like different sword techniques," Teresa laughs once, casual, and Irene actually smiles and wonders why this comparison doesn’t seem weird.

She doesn’t have anything to worry about, they’re sort of friends now: they know each other’s timetables and favourite syrup to go with coffee; but she finds herself restless with anxious energy while she waits for her, it’s like something terrible and big is closing on her and Teresa should not come here and this makes absolutely zero sense. Her head hurts, there’s pulsation in her temples. She tries to massage it out with zero success, groaning under her breath.

“Did something happen? Good morning, by the way.” Teresa’s voice is quiet and yet it makes Irene's head ache even more, resonating with the rhythm of her heart beating frantically. What the fuck.

“Good morning. It’s just a headache, it’ll pass.” Irene responds curtly, she honestly just wishes to crawl under the desk and sleep it off but she has a lab afterwards. Teresa hums sympathetically and pulls something out of her backpack, pink and covered with small violets. The noise of a blister attracts Irene’s attention to Teresa’s wrists, dark and steady and beautiful. She suddenly thinks that Teresa would make a fine swordswoman. Teresa gives her a pill, Irene thanks her and life goes on.

Except at the end of the break Irene mentions the swordswoman thing to Teresa, who nods and agrees with her without missing a beat, her lips tense around her smile, and Irene accepts this as yet another Teresa’s wonderful oddity, like the way she’s casually graceful about everything she ever does. Teresa wishes her good luck on her lab, still frozen somewhat, and Irene thinks about Teresa’s strange relationship with swords while she walks the hallway.

 

 

 

Days pass, and Irene can’t shake the feeling of forgetting something.

One morning she returned to her apartment twice because she thought she hadn’t locked the door, but it was locked and the feeling remained. The dreams become more and more realistic and she finds herself clutching her left arm, terrified.

Once she dreams of Teresa’s head falling from her shoulders, and a small girl’s cries, hoarse and desperate, red sunset spilling blood all over them, and of fear, swallowing her whole. She wakes up quietly, tears in her eyes, left arm numb like it’s not even there, and Irene drinks up a whole bottle of water which she keeps on her nightstand in one go. She swallows it all wrong and coughs till her eyes tear up some more.

Standing up is hard, even breathing is hard, so Irene sits down on the floor leaning against her bed. It feels so real, so inevitable, that she’s actually tempted to text Teresa and ask whether she’s okay and why does it feel that they’ve met before and what is it with her and swords, but it’s five am, so she doesn’t.

To be fair, she wouldn’t have done this even if it was three pm or midday or whatever. She doesn’t eat herself from the inside from worry, she has good control over her emotions, she is calm. She spends two solid hours trying to convince herself that this is true and by the time she has to go to class the circles under her eyes are the most prominent they’ve been all week.

Of course, Teresa notices. She is observant, just as Irene is, and hiding something from her is next to impossible, if she cares enough to investigate, that is. Usually she doesn’t, so Irene is surprised with her sudden scrutiny.

“You look terrible today," there’s small undertone of laughter in her voice, but it’s the way it always is, while now she also seems actually concerned about Irene’s well-being.

“Wow, thanks," Irene deadpans, causing Teresa to curve her lips even more.

“Just stating the truth, consider it a personal favour. Something I can help you with?”

Something deep inside tells Irene that yes, this is precisely the thing Teresa can help her with, except Irene doesn’t know how or why is Teresa even involved with all this, so she just shrugs.

“Can’t sleep well lately, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.”

She keeps quiet about dead Teresa in her dream, who, she remembers now, was but a pale version of this Teresa, who has dark, smooth skin and is overflowing with colours, and is, well, alive and breathing.

“Any weird dreams?”

Suddenly Irene can’t find it in her to inhale. Teresa’s expression is neutral, maybe even too neutral, but you never know for sure with her.

“How do you know?" Irene asks, bewildered. It can’t be that Teresa knows what she’s been dreaming about these days, right?

“Just a lucky guess. So nightmares, huh.” Irene wants to respond that no one has said the word ‘nightmares’ aloud yet, but the words that escape her have nothing in common with dreams.

“Have we met before? Your face is terribly familiar," she doesn’t realise what she has said before the words are out in the thin air between her and Teresa, who suddenly seems very close. Teresa shrugs, casual and, of course, the corners of her lips are turned upwards she sounds nothing short of mysterious when she answers.

“I don’t know. Have we?”

Irene hates being played with, honestly. She prefers straightforward and direct to cunning and oh-so-clever, so she keeps quiet and waits for Teresa to continue. So Teresa does just that.

“Well, we have, but it’s no fun that you don’t remember it. If you do, i’ll tell you more.”

Irene wants to point out that if she does recall how they’ve met there’ll be no point in Teresa telling something to her, but the class starts and Irene gets preoccupied with keeping her eyes open through it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Teresa wants to laugh at the whole situation, except can’t bring herself to do it. Watching Irene struggle so much is a rarity in itself, though maybe in this life she’ll get to see it more often. Not only she has changed, softened up, edges untouched by loss and pain this time around, after all.

Irene seems distracted more often than not now, her forehead creased in a frown on a daily basis, and Teresa wishes to smoothen it with her palm, the urge to do so seated deep in her bones, the way she used to, playful and easy.

They weren’t in a relationship, not really, not like Noel and Sophia once were, keeping each other afloat and caring fiercely about each other. Teresa remembers watching them with some degree of wonder, she couldn’t wrap her mind around the concept of putting someone before her job as a claymore, though calling it a job now seems somewhat ridiculous.

Before Clare, that is.

Maybe it’s the fact that Irene was perfectly capable of defending herself if the need to do so arose. Maybe it’s the fact that they’ve shared the burden of expectations and simultaneous constant distrust, maybe, maybe, maybe

. Back then it didn’t seem a problem, it was just like it was, and both of them accepted the way their relationship flowed.

Now though, Teresa is unsure. They’ve both changed so much, the world surrounding them doesn’t consider them expendable, they are human, both literally and mentally; unscarred, healthy. In retrospective, their past isn’t perfect, and, even if Irene remembers, there’s no guarantee that she will be willing to drag the old ghosts from the past into her future.

The next day, Teresa watches Irene all day without meaning to, noting her long red hair, low voice, thick short eyelashes, the way she carries herself, confident yet careful, and aches. Feelings were never her strong suit, she is the first person to admit that, but the pull of longing, unpleasant and tiring, is especially new to her. She catches herself thinking about Irene more often; looking at the curve of her neck during class; smiling at her when they talk, not with the small uninterested smile she usually offers the world, but genuine, warm one she saves for Clare. It’s weird, she’s not used to crushes; Teresa may have had another life before this, but she’s never had a chance to fall in love.

She can’t say she doesn’t like this particular brand of weirdness though.

Irene, on the opposite, seems less and less collected with each passing day. She’s always exhausted now, dark circles under her eyes, lips pursed together tightly; it’s like she’s trying not to break, to keep herself together at no matter which costs, and it hurts to watch her like this.

Sometimes Teresa wants to tell her everything, except she’s sure it’ll do her more harm than good. Irene has never been the type to trust blindly, so she will just mess up the flow of the memories returning. Teresa remembers it all too well; how she spent weeks trying to convince herself that she is not permanently dreaming, that she doesn’t see blood in every corner of her house, that everything is alright, that she is alright. She knows what Irene is going through, and it actually hurts to watch her.

Teresa isn’t big on comforting people, so she tries to behave as usual and to be a bit closer to Irene, though she’s not sure whether it does actually help her. Irene seems to tense up around her, as if she reminds her of something, and Teresa is pretty sure that this is exactly the case. She can’t really help it, but, she judges, maybe if she’s around enough Irene will remember things faster.

 

 

 

On one quite memorable occasion, Irene meets Clare.

Clare is walking home from school. Her school just happens to be pretty close to Teresa’s university, so they meet up and go home together sometimes. 

Today is Tuesday, which is the day when Irene’s and Teresa’s timetables match, so they finish at the same time. 

Clare waves at them from the university gates, small and timid, staring at Irene, hushed curiosity in her warm brown gaze. She grips the strap of her backpack; Clare has always been shy around strangers, but she seems warming up to Irene in milliseconds. 

“Irene, it’s Clare, my favourite little sister. Coincidentally, the only one, but well. Clare, this is Irene, my groupmate.” 

Clare’s small “a pleasure to meet you!” comes out quick, unsure, but she’s smiling, warm and genuine, and Irene seems awkwardly smitten. Teresa guesses Irene isn’t really good with kids and watches them with an amused smirk. 

“Same to you, Clare. How is school?” 

Irene’s face is barely readable, but her eyes are soft. She squints a little (her glasses are necessary for her to read from the blackboard, but she doesn’t wear them everyday, which Teresa thinks to be an atrocity) when Clare starts talking about her lessons, voice quiet. 

“What do you study in university?" Clare asks Irene after her little speech about her school. 

“I’m electronics major. Not the most interesting one, but I like it well enough.” 

“That’s cool, though!” 

Irene actually seems taken aback with Clare’s enthusiasm and Teresa can't keep her smile from widening. For some reason this whole exchange strikes her as hilarious: Clare and Irene talking about school and majors and other mundane things. 

Clare turns to look at her, question written clear all over her face, while Irene just shrugs. 

“Teresa says that engineering is one of the dullest things she’s ever heard of. As if politics is actually interesting.” 

Clare’s gaze turns guilty, just a touch defensive. 

“But politics is cool, too!” 

“Don't worry, honey, Irene is just trying to get a rise out of me, really.” 

“And when was the last time I've done that,” Irene deadpans. 

This time Teresa can't stop herself from laughing. She ruffles Clare’s hair, who blushes furiously and tries to escape, with little to no success. 

“I’d ruffle yours too, but I don’t fancy being decapitated as a result,” Teresa says to Irene when she's done with Clare, who's pouting and trying to fix her hair. 

Irene’s face falls this instant. She blinks once, clearly unsettled. Teresa doesn't know what on earth motivated her to say that. Maybe just her unconsciousness is trying its hardest for Irene to regain her memories faster. Teresa chooses to ignore what does this say about her unconsciousness and about her in general. 

The ringtone of Irene’s phone snaps her out of her worries, her face smoothening. She takes her phone out of her cardigan pocket and takes the call. 

“Hello, yes, I'm just walking to the station. Do you need me to buy something on my way home?” 

Parents, evidently. 

They walk in a relative silence while Irene, presumably, gets a groceries list from her family. Teresa hums some catchy song she’s heard on the radio this morning under her nose, and watches Irene and Clare walking side by side, expressions of matching clam. 

“Funny how our fates intertwine," she mutters, watching Irene’s profile against the bright sun, who bids her goodbye and puts her phone back into her pocket. 

Irene and Clare turn to look at her with identical quizzical expressions on their faces, Clare slightly tilting her face to the side. 

“Nothing, nothing, just thinking aloud," Teresa says, smiling. They don’t seem to entirely fall for the lie, but Irene shrugs and they keep walking all the same. 

They walk Irene to the station, Clare offering her a small wave and a smile as a goodbye, which is already more than more of her acquaintances get. 

After Irene disappears behind the grey station walls, they turn away to walk home. They don’t talk much on their way, both immersed in their thoughts. Clare smiles, small and feathery, so she must be thinking of something pleasant; while Teresa thinks of splatter of Irene’s countless freckles and her slightly crooked nose. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Faint smile," Irene says aloud, jerking awake one not-quite-morning-yet. 

The words ring heavily in the cool air of the room, and Irene’s breath hitches. 

Faint smile. Teresa. Of course. 

Memories flood all at once, not ceremonious at the very least, and Irene is just too overwhelmed to make sense of them all. Her left arm is burning with a dull old ache, she grabs a pen from the nightstand, holding in her right palm like a sword, lulling herself into a sense of security. The sea of white noise, roaring in her ears, seems to calm down gradually, she no longer feels as if she’s drowning and she is able to breath with less tension.  Pieces of her past life all settle together, forming a clean picture, although Irene feels a few of them missing.

Irene, number two, Quicksword. Yoma, the organization, screaming people. Awakened ones, Priscilla, Teresa’s head on the ground. Years in hiding, fear ever-present and carved into her bones, like an ornament. Clare, sure and determined and wide-eyed. Rafaela, half of her face covered with her scar, like a mask. Teresa’s yokI blossoming in the air, cornering Priscilla’s, who was, after all, just a little scared girl, turned into a monster against her will, hatred burning in her every breath. Clare’s figure, slim candle burning on the horizon, getting closer and closer, calm and safe. 

Clare’s black card, years later, once Raki rests in the rich brown earth, his hair as white as Clare’s was. “Doing it the old-fashioned way?” Her nod, tired yet content. Clare’s last smile. 

Monster clawing its way out of Irene’s ribcage, more insistent and hungry with each passing day. 

Blood. 

_“I’ll tell you more when you remember”._

This time Irene doesn’t hesitate to text Teresa, five am or not, hands shaking and mind hazy. Teresa’s reply is curt, without her usual mischievous laughter evident between the black lines of the sentences. 

“we’ve a lot to discuss, let’s meet up after the classes near the main entrance” 

Straight to the point, just like Irene usually prefers her communication to go, but now she just feels simultaneously full with memories and strangely empty, something forgotten, so this doesn’t console her, not really. She closes her eyes and tries to fall asleep, which proves futile.

 

 

 

Her reflection in the mirror doesn’t seem all that happy to see her a few hours later, but Irene can’t bring herself to care about her face expression. Her neutral one is somewhere along the lines of “I don’t really care” and “milk spoils in 3 km area” anyway so the extra level of grumpiness won’t attract much attention.

Irene barely manages to sit through her classes, which is unusual for her; she’s good at focusing at the matter in hand when there’s a need to do so, but today isn’t just a day. She feels powerful and yet confused, axis of her world not just turned over, but shattered, their pieces crumbling to dust and settling on her eyelashes, keeping her from seeing straight ahead. Her head feels heavy, energy fills her limbs in short angry bursts.

When the last lecture is over, she is the first to leave the room, her belongings already neatly nested in her backpack.

The main hall has large windows, miraculously clean, so sun paints the walls with transparent, sticky honey; Irene doesn’t marvel at the hushed, unobtrusive warmth. She hurries outside.

Teresa’s black hair are gleaming softly, catching threads of sunshine and intertwining with them, and her presence is radiating strength and confidence every bit as much as it used to when she was number one of their generation. She is smoking, white swirls enveloping her features, and, all of a sudden, Irene’s heart starts racing, desperate rhythm against the inner side of her ribcage, matching the sound of her low heels against the pavement, one-two-three.

Teresa waves at her, gesture anticlimactic and utterly normal, as if Irene hasn’t just regained the memories of her long lost life but, instead, bought a cup of coffee in the cafeteria nearby. She was always like that, Irene’s memories unhelpfully supply, taking things at stride, as they come. Some things never change, even though Teresa’s eyes are brown and completely different from the lifeless steel they used to be ages ago. (literally fucking ages ago, Irene thinks, oh god).

Irene doesn’t know what to say to Teresa, completely, at all, because her head is tilted just like the time they were on an awakened hunt and she sat beside the fire, face expression not betraying a single thought, red lights dancing on her face; Irene remembers how they kissed, unhurried, when they crossed paths after their missions, not long after their trainee years; Irene remembers. She didn’t think anything could shake her more that this night did; but oh, was she wrong.

Teresa waits while Irene processes the information, inhaling smoke and looking at her intently, and Irene is grateful for the fact she doesn’t try to push her; after several minutes of her palms sweating Irene calms down enough to notice just how dry her throat has become. She is in a dire need of some coffee as well, because last night was nothing but uneventful and good night’s rest wasn’t really included in the package. Also, the most important thing, she needs to talk with Teresa.

“Do you mind if we go to the cafe to discuss all of this? I need a coffee, maybe two. Or three.”

Irene receives a shrug in response, and after Teresa throws away the cigarette butt, they leave the campus. They walk in a relative silence: both of them aren’t big on small talk, and even if they were, the perspective of a conversation, capital “C", looming on the horizon, would destroy the mood for it entirely.

It’s warm, so Teresa is only wearing a black skirt and a blouse, light-blue and soft to the touch, at least Irene thinks so, and it’s not the late spring’s hot breeze that makes her face flush. Teresa looks straight ahead, as if she prepares herself to something grand and unpleasant, and the knot inside Irene’s chest seems to tighten itself at this thought.

Fifteen minutes later, they occupy a small table near the window in a local cafe, and Irene orders her double espresso. All terribly ordinary, just like their usual study dates, except Irene isn’t even sure how to describe how does she feel right now. Teresa watches her over the rim of her cup, eyes sharp and waiting; Irene takes a deep breath.

“What the fuck.”

Teresa manages to blink twice before snorting, actually snorting, and Irene would think of being offended if she wasn’t so baffled by the current state of affairs right now. Teresa regains her composure quickly, though, and crosses her legs under the table.

“I take it you’ve regained your memories. You’ve taken a lot of time, you know. For everyone I know, they were like fifteen when it happened. Well, except for Clare, but she’s always been a special case.”

“Hers returned earlier?” Irene asks, circling the rim of her cup.

“Nah, she just doesn’t remember a single thing. Fortunately so, I'd say.”

“Pretty much.”

Silence falls, heavy and uncomfortable, after that. Teresa doesn’t want to initiate the conversation, it seems, and waits for Irene to say something. Honestly, she would, if she only knew what to say.

“So the whole yoma business, it did actually happen? It isn’t just my nightmares or whatever it is?” Irene’s voice is shaky, no matter how hard she tries to calm down, and Teresa’s face seems almost painfully gentle when she responds.

“Well, plenty of us do remember it, with vivid details and matching descriptions, so unless it’s a mass hallucination, it truly is real.”Teresa takes her latte, thanking the waitress, and takes a sip. “We all took it hard. I spent a week avoiding Clare because I kept thinking about her holding my head," she winces as she says it, “nasty.” 

“I kept dreaming of that time when Priscilla awakened. And that my arm is missing; couldn’t feel it for like an hour afterwards. How did all of you deal? To have it happen at fifteen…" Irene shakes her head. 

Teresa merely shrugs. 

“Once you remember it all, it lets go. Of course, then you have to spend another week convincing yourself that it wasn’t just a big weird dream, but it settles just fine, if you don’t resist it too much. Now I just know that it happened.” 

Irene hums, sceptical, though the promise of having an actual sleep at night seems pretty nice. 

“Lower numbers remember much less, though. You don’t know Helen and Deneve?" Teresa asks her, like they’re discussing their mutual friends or neighbours. It seems hilariously surreal, and Irene rubs the bridge of her nose in order not to let out a laugh, which, she’s pretty sure, would come out hysterical. She doesn't recall their names, and she says just so. Teresa doesn't seem surprised. 

“They were, and are, Clare’s good friends. Deneve was 15th once, and Helen was something in twenties. Helen remembers, but without some crucial details. Tragedy ensues.” 

Irene nods, not really invested in the outcome of their difficulties. She does want to meet them, though, if only to know someone with different perspective on this whole business. 

“What do you remember, exactly?” Teresa asks her, voice tensing up a little bit. 

“Well, the whole Priscilla story, some of my trainee years, but it’s unclear mostly. I do recall that I was in hiding for some years after but it’s all smudgey. Then when I started using yoma more frequently…” 

A thought occurs to her, and Irene frowns.

“Remember how you told me that memories usually return when one is about fifteen years old and that they are connected to the number you once had? Maybe I'm so late to the party because I've spent so long with my yoma concealed? And Clare was only a quarter-yoma, so…” 

Teresa nods after a moment of consideration. 

“I've thought of it, yeah. Seems feasible enough. So what about later years?” 

“I remember Clare sending me a black card. I granted her request and then I've been turning less and less human each day and then it’s just blur.” 

Irene doesn’t tell Teresa that the cupid bow of her lips is one of the brightest positive memories in the whole collection, though she wants to, desperately so. She just isn’t sure how Teresa even views their mutual past now, it’s not exactly a picture of healthy relationship. Teresa seems unsatisfied somewhat; her eyes are still, as if she’s trying not to show her disappointment. 

They’re sitting against each other like they’re fencers, reaching out to touch each other with their weapons and then retreat back to defensive positions. Irene sighs; the rational part of her says that it’s okay, they are done with the conversation, she may just let it go, but the other part nudges her to say something, anything, to maybe have a chance to what, she herself doesn’t know. 

“So do you remember me before the whole Priscilla story?” Teresa is faster than Irene is. Her face is motionless as she says it; not a single crack in her armour. 

Suddenly, Irene is tired. She never liked dancing around her point; she still doesn’t, some things never change. 

“I do remember what we had, if that’s what you’re hinting at.” 

Her voice comes out much steadier than Irene herself feels. She watches Teresa’s smile soften, though not entirely. Irene recalls how she looked at Clare, her expression delicate, and notices the resemblance. This thought fills her with warmth, hushed, unobtrusive; it feels right. 

“You always knew me best. Yeah, I wanted to talk about it. Do you want to keep it?” 

Irene bites her lower lip and nods. Teresa closes her eyes and sighs, relief spread all over her features. 

“I thought you didn’t remember. I tried to attract your attention once, but you just looked straight through me,” Teresa shrugs, her ankles now crossed with Irene’s like they belong here and only here. Once a woman of action, always a woman of action, Irene muses, and lets a tiny smile settle on her lips.

Irene tells her about her dreams after the library accident, in her turn, Teresa speaks of all the claymores she’s already met and talked to.￼ She’s in the middle of talking about the time she’s met Cassandra, when Irene is stricken with a thought. 

What if they won’t be able to make it work out? What will become of them then, with their shared past? 

Her face expression must betray her doubts, because Teresa stops mid-sentence and watches her, careful. 

“Having second thoughts?” 

“What if we don’t work out? It happens, you know. We are not guaranteed a perfect love story just because we were fucking in our past life,” Irene knows she puts it too bluntly, sharp enough to cut, but she also knows that Teresa is used to it, she knows when she doesn’t have to take it seriously. 

“Ah, giving up before the very beginning, how very unlike you.” Teresa grins at her, guarded and daring at the same time, and the bubble of anxiety, settled deep in her chest, deflates, not exactly gone, but Irene breathes easier. It's all just so familiar, Teresa's light snark and her own flat responses, but the light deep in Teresa's eyes is new.

It makes her want to believe.

“In your dreams, Faint Smile. I’m in,” Irene says, serious, earnest. Teresa rubs her ankles against Irene’s; sunlight warms up Irene’s hands though the glass.

 

 

* * *

 

 

_one year later_

 

 

They do work out, it seems.

Irene grows closer to Clare; she wants to choose either Maths or Economics as her major, so Irene helps her with her extra Math lessons. She can’t help but care for her, steady flow of affection nested deep in her bones. Clare smiles at her, warm and sweet, and Irene is glad she doesn’t remember the pain she went through for this new life to be possible.

She does meet Helen and Deneve. Helen is a touch too loud to her liking, but she’s earnest and Clare seems to like her well enough. Deneve is good, self-confident and calm. The five of them, including Teresa, go out sometimes, though being surrounded by teenagers seems a little weird.

And her and Teresa, they’re good.

Low voice near her ear pulls her out of her musings; her eyes are covered with a soft palm.

“Guess who!”

“I don’t even know. Clare, is that you? Appearing in my university during my coffee break? Skipping school?”

Teresa laughs, breathing warm on her ear, and lets her go, kissing the back of her head. She hangs her bag on the back of her chair and sits down near Irene, putting her cup of coffee down on the table.

“What were you thinking about? You seemed pretty out of it.”

“Nothing important,” Irene says, shrugging.

_Real good._


End file.
